


Crush

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones has a crush on his captain and it’s driving him crazy.He needs a plan of action to free him from this obsession.<br/>Warnings: a heady, melodramatic mix of masturbation, angsting,a whiff of crack, and shameless romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crush

****

Crush

(complete)

 

McCoy wasn’t quite sure when precisely he had fallen in love with his Captain.

All he knew was that now wasn’t the time to tell him.

He managed to open his eyes for a blinding moment and breathe in the sight of James T. Kirk on his knees before him, a gold-sleeved arm resting half on McCoy’s thigh, half on the sickbay bed while his left hand gently teased McCoy’s cock in and out of his delicate mouth.

Words and sensations crowded McCoy’s mind and body like lemmings on a cliff. Heat shot erratically through his thighs, his back, his neck and fuck he needed more friction. While he didn’t dare touch Jim, or move, one part of him wouldn’t lay down - his hectoring, irritable, wakeful mind.

“Harder, Jim, suck me harder, dammit!” he hissed, unable to shut up.

The captain obeyed and McCoy shuddered with relief and fear, jarring his neck as he leaned back on his hands for balance, the bed’s height and the awkward angle preventing him from humping forwards and meeting Jim halfway.

And, despite his body being in heaven, if heaven was indeed a place that offered such torment, his huge brain wouldn’t shut up, noticing the way Jim gripped his cock, ran his tongue from base to tip in long, lazy strokes, how he puffed almost imperceptible little breaths at the tip - McCoy understood this was fuck talk for ‘I’m in charge here,’ and McCoy might as well give it up.

Well, if Jim was going to pull rank at a time like this, McCoy knew to cut his losses. He was a doctor, after all, not a fucking marathon runner. So, with the quiet desperation of an animal led to sacrifice, McCoy stepped into the current of not knowing what would happen or when it would happen.

The why, he thought, because after all it was his spirit and body giving in, never his mind, was too many shades of complicated to think about here, with this hot, hot mouth on him and those assured hands driving him crazy by tickling his balls and running torturous strokes between his cheeks.

McCoy feared his wrists would snap like gantries in an earthquake; the thinking-half of his body strained for escape while the feeling-half, miraculously centered on his groin, had his thighs canting forwards and upwards to the inferno that was Jim’s miraculous, Jesus talented mouth.

Was there anything this bastard was bad at?

If only he could free his hands, he’d be able to cover his ears and block out the sounds from below him, the gentle moans and the whispered warning of “Stay still, Bones, or I’ll bite ya!”

He sure as hell didn’t want to do anything to stop these sensations gripping his cock, which, frankly, he thought had died from lack of use. This was what it must be like to be cooked, he groaned to himself, as the heat slowly, painfully, irreversibly changed him.

Shit. He wasn’t going to last long.

His plan of action—for, after all, some of this military stuff had been bound to rub off on him—was that he wouldn’t look down. He could do this – He could keep his eyes squeezed shut even if they tried to gasp open in response to a captainly nail raking at his balls-- He could do this, yes, he could focus on the ceiling, anywhere but on that face… That is, if he was going to last any length of time, and prove to Jim that he did have some control and that he was an adult, dammit, not a damp-eared pup.

McCoy was amazed that he could hear anything above the sound of the blood rushing in his head; he could make out his own uneven breaths, the distant slopping from below, and even, damn Jim, the odd chuckle.

And it didn’t escape his attention that Kirk was keeping it simple. Little variety needed, McCoy thought grimly, what with all this gratitude tipping the balance of power Kirk’s way.

God, they might get caught. That annoying, exciting, thought almost drove McCoy over the edge; all the heat in the universe threatened to…

Stop thinking, he chided and…what was that sound? Was that him? Those choking breaths…. building to a sharp rhythm… any second now.

“Jim, I…Christ, that’s good…harder…I…I need…”

He willed Jim’s mouth harder around himself with each inhalation, shifted awkwardly on the bed, needing that release, just that one extra moment to get him….

Don’t look, don’t! But the image of Jim’s half-closed eyes, charcoal eyelashes and moist, pink lips had, in a mere moment, flashed like an explosion and irrevocably seared his retinas.

The part of McCoy’s brain that hadn’t abandoned him feared he’d never be able to remove the ghost image when…oh… he needed to just concentrate, and…

“Close. Close…”

Oh…he’d peeked again, and their eyes connected for a split second and he could hear himself moaning, one hand reaching out for Jim’s face, his hair, anything…

“Fuck, Jim. Fuck.”

Damn him, how did he manage to still look like he was in charge when he was on his knees like this, sucking him hard… how?

“McCoy? Kirk here.”

“Shit!”

And it was like he’d run into a wall.

McCoy looked now and grimaced at the sight of his rapidly deflating cock in his own hand, his feet hanging pathetically off the side of the biobed.

No Jim, just him, alone and wretched.

A lump the size of an asteroid lodged in his throat so that the words he needed, which might have brought him back to the world of the rational and functioning, couldn’t elbow their way past to his mouth.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Captain. Jim? Sir,” he managed to croak while clumsily tucking his cock back into his underpants with a wince. What was Kirk doing up at this hour? It was 3am.

And Sir? Could he have been anymore pathetic?

Dry mouthed, McCoy tucked himself in, wiped his hand, slid off the bed, adjusted his pants, and threw the tissue in the incinerator. “Computer, turn on visual.”

Cornflower eyes shone back. “Something wrong, Bones? ,” Kirk indicated his own face. “You seem a little red. Caught the sun?”

It didn’t escape McCoy’s attention that the Captain was smirking. Nor that his pupils seemed heavily dilated – Perhaps he’d been asleep, only just turned his reading light on. But McCoy wasn’t about to invade a fellow crew-member’s privacy and ask a bunch of stupid questions.

“Dropped my tricorder under the bed.” McCoy cleared his throat and forced his face into what he vaguely remembered a smile felt like. “Got a head rush.” He ran his hand across a slightly clammy forehead, unsticking a few strands of hair.

He saw that Kirk was in his quarters and in civvies. “Now, Captain,” he snarled, “do you have something to ask me? If you haven’t, permission to get on with my busy, busy day?”

****

McCoy wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the gym. Could he blame a wrong turn and a sleep-deprived brain? A wrong turn comprised of two decks upwards and a walk along a mile of corridor?

It was half an hour till he was due on shift, but he’d found himself restless and waiting in his quarters. Seemed all he did was wait to fall asleep, wait to go to sickbay, and wait for this infatuation to leave him.

He knew it would. What he needed to do was ride it out, break its spirit.

And now, Leonard, you’re talking to yourself again.

From the upper level, McCoy scanned the half-empty gym.

And an infatuation doesn’t have a spirit. Ok?

He needed a good night’s sleep, was all. When was the last time he’d had one of those? Years of medical practice had taught McCoy to grab his rest when he could, and short, quality, comatose naps were one of the reasons he managed to stay as sharp as he did. Well, until some filthy airborne space virus had entered his brain and turned him into a schoolgirl overnight.

He’d have to do something about this. He needed to sleep – or his patients would be in danger.

Or he’d break his penis.

He rolled his eyes, feeling quite the idiot, in the middle of the gym, in his uniform.

He approached the lower-level and could make out a holovid landscape of immense flatness, wheat field after wheat field, with a slight breeze…and his chest tightened a little at the sight of his captain running on the treadmill, the incline set high, clenching his fists as he struggled through the latter stages of another very long run.

He had his back to McCoy; all the better to soak up the view of his ass and the bare legs scissoring up an imaginary hill towards an imaginary peak.

Kind of at the same angle McCoy’s cock was struggling towards.

“Computer, level 2,” he heard Jim pant. McCoy took two more long strides towards his captain, and in the few precious seconds it afforded him, he put that photographic memory of his to good use, making a mental note of each detail: each hair at Jim’s nape, the shifts in muscular tension as Jim’s shoulders dropped a little and the treadmill slowed by degrees... the exact width and curve of Jim’s right tricep as he leaned forward and grasped for the hem of the black wife-beater to pull it up to his forehead, exposing a glimpse of pale, golden hip above slouchy shorts.

And then McCoy and his teenage cock where caught out again.

He had hoped he’d be able to walk to the captain’s side and casually nod, all business-like, but he’d hesitated, not wanting to make Kirk jump, planning to wait for the walking part of the work out; if he made Jim jump, he might have caused an accident, after all, and while it was tempting to have another excuse to patch Jim up and get real close, really--despite the fact that his brain had been crowded out by the cock virus (or as he was fond of calling it, colomna erecta)--McCoy was ethical to the end.

When he wasn’t playing at being a school girl and… Shit!

No one should look like that, looking over their shoulder at a friend and fellow crew member: unshaven face flushed pink at the cheeks, eyes the color of innocence and daylight. He felt something lurch deep, deep in his belly, and he braced his legs and folded his hands across his chest to cover up the pounding heart.

“Bones!”

Was that pleasure in that tone? If only McCoy could ask Uhura; voice inflection wasn’t really his thing. He’d become an expert in being a jackass, instead.

“Everything okay?”

“You’re running too much, Jim.” His voice was gruff, ugly in this calm environment, the big skies in the holovid fading as the belt below Kirk’s feet stalled to a standstill. McCoy wondered if in someway being brought up among those vast spaces had prepared his friend for the emptiness of space.

“I..” Kirk looked at his feet. “I’ve got a lot of excess energy to work off these days.” He stepped to the floor, his eyes level with McCoy’s.

He didn’t need to explain. McCoy understood the tomcat had reined in. It was probably about focus, and being taken seriously, but it was also being fair to his crew. They loved him, any fool could tell that, and Kirk loved them right back – all equally – and with this fairness, although they hadn’t talked about it, came celibacy. It hadn’t escaped McCoy’s notice that Kirk drank less and partied not at all.

Running would help, McCoy understood that. If only he could find someway to re-direct his own annoying thoughts, McCoy wished, trying not to think about his captain jacking off in his quarters every night. “You need to give your muscles time to repair, adjust…”

Kirk furrowed his brow and chewed his bottom lip, mulling over McCoy’s comment. “But I need to stay in shape, it’s hard on this ship and,” Kirk leant forward so McCoy could feel his breath warm on his face for a split second, “Bones, I’m getting fat.”

Kirk stepped back again and, God help me, McCoy almost squeaked out when Kirk raised his wife beater just a little, revealing the pale line of hair disappearing into his shorts.

He was a doctor, he saw people naked all the time, he was detached a professional, and he positively did not have a hard on.

And, in his professional opinion, while it was true Jim wasn’t as defined as, say, Sulu, who worked out big time, his captain looked fine to him. Better whip the tricorder out, though, just to make the point more scientific. Medical rather than lascivious.

He ran the tricorder over Kirk’s belly, clenching his jaw so as to shut out the fire creeping around his body like unpredictable gunpowder, threatening to stir up his cock further if he took his eyes off the readings for even a moment.

“It’s hard staying in shape on this ship,” he stated, not sure whether it was best to confirm that according to his medical opinion, James Tiberius Kirk’s body mass index was perfect.

He could smell Kirk, a musky, post-work out sweat scent which must have been what he smelled like after sex, too. He straightened, saved the readings, and considered what it would be like to bury his face in that armpit and mark himself with the scent of his captain.

“Jim, you’re fine. You’re well within the percentile for your age and height. Go take a shower before someone hears you talking like that – you’re a captain of a starship, not a girl at a pajama party!”

Jim grinned, pulled a towel from the hand rest, and wiped his face, an action which, much to McCoy’s irritation, mussed up his hair in such a way as to make him look like he’d fallen from heaven.

Just when you thought you’d gotten it together again.

“Bones?”

Damn, Kirk’s hand was on McCoy’s arm again. It was as if he’d hotwired him in that simple gesture, a line of heat magicked from those perfect, long fingers straight to his chest.

He used to like that his friend was so tactile, a hugger, but lately it was getting to be a pain. Why couldn’t the bastard keep his hands to himself? If he’d pulled this kind of shit in Georgia, they’d’ve whooped his ass.

“Bones, you’re wound pretty tight these days. Something you want to tell me?”

What could he possibly say? I love you, you blond-haired pretty boy? I can’t sleep ‘cause you’re driving me crazy?

Somewhere, a small part of his brain still worked. “I don’t like this godforsaken ship, Captain.” He looked at Jim’s mouth, at the guileless expression, and he felt something well up in him. “I like what we do, shit, I believe in this mission. It’s just…”

Something inside him struggled to break out and he took an awkward step back from Jim, not quite sure where to stand.

Why was he there?

He’d said too much, too much for a sober man talking to another sober man in a public place, even a sober man with that expression on his face. He loved this about Jim, his natural compassion and care for his crew, for his friends. Blue eyes held him for a long moment and McCoy realized he’d zoned out, just for a second.

“You’re stir-crazy,” he heard Jim say.

For a moment, McCoy caught an imaginary glimpse of himself from above. A pathetic adolescent in a bitter, Autumnal body, a slight slouch due to being hunched over in an effort to hide a half-hard cock and, dammit, was that shortness of breath? Come on, you asshole! he goaded inwardly. Speak, dammit!

“Bones?”

McCoy had moved his gaze away from Kirk’s and now stared at the towel resting on Jim’s shoulder. He folded his arms tight just in case he found he’d leaned forward and taken it to wipe some drool from his own mouth.

Jim cocked his head. “Do I have something on my face?” He ran the towel across flushed cheeks and then his forehead—which was still glistening from the intense workout--mussing an eyebrow. Irritably, McCoy wondered what it would be like to lean over, spit on his thumb and fix it.

Kirk didn’t ask McCoy why he was in the gym; they were friends, after all. Instead, he tossed the towel at him with a grin. McCoy made no effort to hide his consternation when it hit him in the chest.

“Put that in the chute, would you?” And in the moment Jim turned his back on him, McCoy had balled the towel into his hand, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back watching the captain saunter to the turbo lift.

That night, McCoy came in agonized silence with his face buried in the towel, his lungs drawing out Jim’s scent, his lips searching the fibers for answers.

Afterwards, he kept his eyes shut, momentarily sated, temporarily calm. He wondered what it would be like to have that hard body sleeping beside him, to feel the bed move as he shifted in his sleep. He wondered if he would ever be cursed with wanting like this again.

To his disgust, he even considered keeping the towel in a sanitized bag somewhere in his room, then,-- “Dammit!” And he slung it into the laundry chute before he could change his mind.

+++ 

 

This was getting out of hand.

Like his Grandma used to say, “The fool's so lost he don't know if he's afoot or on horseback.” But she’d never have expected to refer to a McCoy in this way. The CMO. How proud she’d have been, he thought bitterly.

In the turbo lift, he ground his teeth, not looking forward to seeing his captain. He wondered when this all began, the scientist in him wanting to find the evidence of the exact time when he fell from his own self-regard and officially became a damned fool.

It kept him awake at night.

Eventually the question bugged him so much that he almost fell into hate with Jim. His heart was scabbing over, he told himself. Atrophying from lack of attention.

Fine with him. No pain, no loss, no tears. Fine.

He felt himself color slightly as the lift doors swooshed and he entered the bridge.

Kirk had turned to beam at him. “Bones! Look at this!” Kirk indicated the starscape, energy crackling around him like an excited child on his birthday. “Romulans!”

Only Jim would be thrilled at this. And it was intoxicating. McCoy cleared his throat twice. He managed an eye-roll and one of his patent I’m-a-doctor faces but his heart sang that his friend, Jim, would want to share his excitement, always with _him_.

And he mustn’t let him know that.

“I’ve got work to do, Jim. Let me know when I need to start patching the crew up.”

His harsh tone bounced off the captain and hit him right back in the chest. Wasn’t fair to talk to his dear friend like this. “Where are your manners, Leonard?” his grandma used to say.

Maybe he was wound tight, dammit. His default was tighter than a gnat’s anus but he had to admit that he was crossing even his own boundary of grump these days.

Maybe he should take up running too.

Or have a word with the hobgoblin about meditation.

The good ol’ Southern methods of booze and jacking off just weren’t cutting it, he thought in the lift, rubbing an eye with a knuckle.

Work. Now that was different. That always took his mind off his trouble. Long as he wasn’t in the same room as Kirk.

“Sickbay,” he told the computer.

As the turbo lift took him away, the motion triggered a memory and McCoy realized he’d worked it out. He’d remembered when he’d shown the first symptom, the first time that things had gone from friendship to just plain annoying.

It was day one of their mission, in fact the precise _moment_ the Enterprise went to warp under Kirk’s official command.

He’d stood behind his best friend, his captain, marvelling at how at ease Kirk looked in The Chair. McCoy knew he didn’t _need_ to be there; he wasn’t needed on the bridge, but this was a perk of their relationship--no _friendship_ : he got to be places ordinary people didn’t.

Kirk had invited him along to ride shotgun. He’d glanced over his shoulder at McCoy more than once and for all those people, he was the one that Jim seemed to want to share with most.

And it was from this position, from behind the captain’s chair, McCoy noticed something – When the Enterprise went to warp, Jim crossed his legs.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the captain had an erection! The academy’s star adrenaline junky was astride the biggest damn horse ever spawned by Starfleet. And it made him hard.

McCoy folded his arms, the gesture keeping his heart in check but with those damned tight regulation pants, he might as well have been naked. He gnawed his knuckle. Fortunately the rest of the bridge was eyes ahead.

Nope, he’d have to take this somewhere else. He wasn’t going to show _this_ to anyone.

And the guilt and sleepless nights began.

****

In sickbay he was safe. Nothing could take McCoy off track; here his mind was too full even for Jim Kirk.

But somehow his body never forgot about his friend.

As he sutured Chekov’s forehead, McCoy wondered if the only release from this schoolgirl crush would be if one of them died.

“Keep _still_ , boy,” he hissed.

Chekov swung his legs over the side of the biobed, looking every inch of his just-eighteen.

“Doctor, it hurts.”

“’Course it hurts, you fool. You slammed into the wall. Where were you running to?”

Chekov frowned, then winced because that made it hurt. He garbled some incomprehensible babble. Good thing McCoy wasn’t listening or he might have missed Kirk coming to sickbay.

Who was he kidding? He _knew_ Kirk was in the room even before he saw him.

Just as well he had a few moments to get a grip, take a breath and rearrange his heart into an organ that pumped blood round his body rather than indulging in its new, clumsy role as the talisman for his scorn.

“Pavel.” Kirk was all warmth and concern. He smiled at McCoy, who raised an eyebrow in greeting.

“I said keep _still_.” McCoy had to resist the urge to pinch the ensign.

“Keptin!”

McCoy rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe it – Jim had yet another fan. How many of them were there in this ship, hiding their feelings while jacking off and crying into their pillows at night, all because of that face, those eyes, that damned lion’s heart?

McCoy noticed his throat constrict and moved away from the bed, throwing the instruments and medical waste into the chute.

He ought to start a society. Yep, he was an overworked CMO, but he could make time for the role of Chairman of Pathetic. Hell, he could have a fund-raiser; he’d sell ice-tea & cake and be able to build a grandstand with the proceeds.

He paid no heed to the conversation, but he could read the need and desire in the young pup’s every movement. When Kirk leaned forwards to examine the wound, Chekov cowed his head like a milkmaid before a knight. A fleeting image of Jim in armour sent a ripple down McCoy’s belly that convinced McCoy he’d better see Commander Calm before his teeth were worn to stumps by the sheer, 24/7 effort of getting a grip.

“Nice work, Bones!” And he was gone.

Thank God?

“You’re making a fool of yourself, Ensign.” McCoy couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

Chekov frowned. “ _Me,_ Doctor?”

“He’s the captain. He’s detached from all of us in the end. He won’t let anything come between him and this ship, leastways a two minute knee-trembler with a kid like you.”

That was brutal. He saw Chekov was tearing up and wished he was the kind of person who could put his arm round people. Like Jim would have done.

“But it’s lonely in space, is it not, Doctor?” Chekov looked at his feet.

“It can be.” McCoy softened his tone. “But we have a job to do, Ensign. The work comes first.”

And as was often the case with doctor and patient, McCoy listened as Chekov opened up, revealed in a way that McCoy’s position seemed to make happen without his even trying.

“But I love him, Doctor…” he finished.

McCoy snorted. “First, these displays of emotion are un-American and secondly, we’ll agree you never said that.”

Chekov nodded, his face as pale as the Moon.

McCoy softened. He was never one to shirk from telling it like it was, but this kid…he looked like Lamb Chop, dammit.

“Find someone, erm…” He wanted to say ‘in your league’ but he thought better of it; after all, who the hell was in Kirk’s league, anyway? He felt his cheeks colour. “Go on, kid, git.” He swatted the ensign on the arm but called after him before he got to the door. “Stop running around the corridors. Next time you might break something, you Russian fool.” What class of genius was the boy anyway if he couldn’t work out quite how ridiculous he looked? “If ever you need to talk, you know, man to man – “ He made his voice gentle, soft, like his Grandma might have used.

Chekov paused. “Sank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome,” was the glum reply.

* * * *

It was a long, long night. His mind was working sideways, in freefall, one connection and worry chasing or spawning another until it felt like he might scream in rage. He needed to sleep. He also knew sleep was never going to happen.

He couldn’t find the strength to stand, to actually get up and go to Sickbay to join the graveyard shift, to do some work even though he wasn’t on duty for another twelve hours. Anything besides this. Much better to catch up with his notes. But his limbs paid no heed to his demand for them to move. It was as if the bedspread had become flypaper.

He thought about the dying option again and felt guilty as sin. If he’d somehow tempted fate because of this nocturnal wishing and cursing well… add that to the long list of ‘I’ll never forgive myself’.

Then McCoy remembered that his own psychological profile had outlined this tendency to romanticize death and that it shouldn’t be a cause of concern to his superiors. Reading a bit of poetry usually sorted him out. Or some bourbon.

The artificial dawn had begun and McCoy could make out the spartan contents of his room. This was something he and Jim shared: they didn’t own much. Sure, there had been clutter in their respective rooms, but very little that you’d grab in a fire.

He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. It was too close; he was used to air, big ol’ Georgian houses where a man could stretch up and not touch the chandeliers. No wonder he was going crazy.

Damn the inconvenience. Was it worse to have no control over your cock or worse to have lost your heart? To have just handed it over to a slip of a boy who’d drop it till it shattered into a million pieces? And how would he even begin to find the shards, put some of it back together again, here in this endless emptiness of space?

He knew how the human mind worked. Tell a kid they mustn’t put their finger in the pie when you’re out of the room and that’s what they’d want to do. Need to do. And he’d been telling himself, with the strictest internal voice he could muster, to stop thinking about Jim. He’d gone about it all wrong, he realized.

In the shower, the voice had said _Leonard, put your cock down._

In bed in the morning: _Get up, it’ll fade once you’ve had breakfast._

So, this was good. He knew what he was doing wrong. He’d still have to work out what was the best tactic for doing it right, but he definitely felt a moment of relief. Yep! He swung his legs off the bed, rubbed the back of his neck, pointedly ignored his erection, and got into the shower.

It was a while before he came out.

Two hours later, he was in sickbay when an announcement came from the bridge that they’d be going into warp. He’d barely thought about Jim since his shower but now, thinking about how, sitting in that chair, his cock would be harder than crystal and his face brighter than a galaxy… Hmm…this is why he was a doctor and not a poet.

He slammed his office door shut, making Chapel jump.

Damn it – he had to fix himself. This really _had_ gotten out of hand.

+++

 

Before taking up the option of a pointy-eared meditation master class, McCoy thought he’d try one more thing.

Three days in a row, he’d taken to sitting in the steam room on the recreation deck. Felt good to be sitting in his trunks, back slippery against the marble seats while the haze of pale gray blistering vapour soaked through the knots in his neck and the tight chords in his thighs. Here with his eyes closed, if he could just allow himself, it could feel like he was home; he didn’t need a holovid to bring back the scent of jasmine, the echoes of crockery through open windows and dogs barking half heartedly in the heat… a bit of bluegrass… Just this slippery heat.

It was sweat pricking at the corner of his eyes, he told himself. _Jim_ , he thought, lowering his head into his hands.

For a moment he’d been free from this prison, he’d managed to fool himself but now he was wide awake and inside a very bad dream, one in which he was pathetic, spineless, and very alone.

He scrabbled to stand, to just get out of there; back home he’d have saddled up Mama’s mare or gone fishing but here there was nowhere and nothing but work.

He scooped up his towel. Yes, that was it, get back to work, no matter that he had six hours until he was due on-shift. There was plenty to do. That was the McCoy he loved and could live with, not this maudlin, self-pitying, whining…

He went to push the door and -- dammit, there he was. Through the small square of window he saw the captain.

And he’d patently ignored McCoy’s advice. He was the CMO, dammit. What had happened to the rest days?

The saunas, steam rooms and relaxation area were on the oval gallery overlooking the running machines. A large screen gave the impression of being at the beach, accompanied by subtle ambient sounds. Kirk stood by the railing and craned to scan the floor below.

McCoy glanced at the timer on the wall. He’d been in the sauna fifteen minutes already and he really needed to get out. Why was Jim standing there?

He allowed himself a few seconds to examine the back of Jim’s neck, the slightly freckled skin disappearing into, frankly, a shirt that had known better days.

He’d come out in a minute, he told himself; just wait, see where he goes. He didn’t want it to look like they had accidently bumped into each other. Again. And he’d already spent too long looking and not seeing him to just pop out and say hi. McCoy couldn’t do nonchalant.

He prayed to some power in the universe, thanking him/her/it for making sure no one else was in that sauna to witness how he’d crouched a little just so he could duck properly in case the captain turned around.

Eighteen minutes…must be the heat making him feel lightheaded.

Jim turned and McCoy’s heart strained in his throat. There should be laws. No one should have eyes that colour. It shouldn’t be allowed.

Before he knew it, his hand was sliding down under his waistband to his very hard cock. He was just adjusting himself; these trunks had gotten a little tighter since he last wore them. Too much ship food, too many late meals, and not enough time exercising.

That voice in his head again, snarky McCoy: _You keep doing that, you asshole, and you’ll wear it out_. He didn’t listen. He was too busy watching his captain, just the back of his neck, the strength, the youth: this is what he saw when he stood behind Jim’s chair.

And he narrowed his eyes while he rubbed his cock impatiently. He needed to get out of there-- too hot--his cock slick in his hand as he pumped and drank in the sight of his captain and when he turned again, when he saw Jim bite his lower lip, shrug and then walk away--dammit--he came hard and angrily.

He rested his forehead against the wall, out of sight of the door. Twenty minutes, the timer said.

At least no one would think anything of his red cheeks. He adjusted his waistband and marched out of the sauna in the opposite direction, back to the turbo lift, into the shower to wash this damned foolishness out of his system.

That would definitely be the last time. He was okay now, he thought as he waited for the lift. In fact, he’d prove it to himself now and just take one look over the railing. As Jim’s doctor, he was concerned that the captain was overdoing it.

He’d need to talk to him about it, he told himself, passing his hand across his face because his stupid, problem hair has stuck to his sweaty forehead.

And on his hand was the scent of what an idiot he was.

****

Three days after the Romulan attack, his captain finally sat up in the biobed, arms folded as he waited for McCoy to scan him.

“Bones, I’m gonna die.”

“Sure, if you keeping acting like an idiot, running round like a headless chicken.“

He knew that Jim was smiling even without looking, from the way his shoulders relaxed in his peripheral vision. But he didn’t dare look. He’d done pretty good with the whole not-thinking project, and after the Romulan attack, he’d been busy.

Very. Too busy to allow for these adolescent feelings.

“Ow!” McCoy rubbed his upper arm.

“Sorry.” Kirk looked sheepish.

“You appear to have regained your strength, Captain.” Spock was so easy to impersonate.

Kirk caught his eye and they both chuckled. “Nice Spock, Bones. Just don’t ever let him catch you doing it or he’ll slip something into your mind next time you’re asleep - have you cowering under the covers.”

“I’ve got my own voodoo, Jim,“ McCoy drawled, flipping his hypospray towards Jim like a gunslinger. He melted inwardly as Kirk almost imperceptibly winced during the administration of the shot.

“I mean I’m going to die of boredom, going back to our conversation a few minutes ago.”

“If that was a real life-threatening illness, we’d all have perished in this infernal tin can months ago.”

It had been great having the captain in the sickbay even while he was sleeping. Just knowing that Jim was there calmed McCoy. In fact, he’d had the best nights’ sleep in months with his feet on a chair or slouched at his desk with the door open so he could see the gentle rise and fall of his captain’s chest should he wake up. He didn’t. He had a whole lot of catching up to do.

Things had calmed down now.

McCoy liked this, the easy conversation and the banter. Shit, when was the last time the two of them had taken the time to talk about nothing like this?

McCoy pulled up a chair and sat back with a groan.

“You look rode hard and put up wet!” Kirk’s attempt at southern vernacular was ridiculous.

“I’m a doctor not a cowboy, Captain,” McCoy said pointedly. “But, yes, it has been a long few days.” Jim slumped back into the pillows, tired from the talking. “I’ll bring you some movies, that’ll cheer you up.”

“Bones, I can’t sit still long enough to watch a movie!”

“Ordinarily, Jim, but right now it looks like you have no choice.”

****

Four hours later, McCoy peeked through the window of the private room in sickbay. Kirk had managed to sit still long enough to watch _Gone with the Wind_. He looked up, and his face, lit by the screen, bright and open-- Well, McCoy realized that perhaps he hadn’t fixed himself after all.

He put his head through the door. He didn’t want to engage Jim in too much talk, after all he looked tired, very tired, but he had to ask. “How was the movie?”

Kirk nodded. His face pale. “He looks like you, Bones,” he said simply.

And yes, the CMO blushed.

****

The end of the senior staff meeting had McCoy fidgeting impatiently through one of Scotty’s tales. He found himself re-reading notes on his PADD, his report on how they’d developed a vaccine against the Aruthian virus complete with charts and data… Anything rather than look at Kirk, or pretend to be amused by tales of turbo thrust or whatever it was that got Scotty so hot.

And then, out of nowhere, something in his head went PING!

Since when was he the kind of guy that waited for things to fix themselves? He was a doctor! He was all about intervention. He’d gone about it all wrong.

He knew what to do now. He knew the only way out of his fever, his agony and his foolishness. He’d be able to sleep again. It was so simple, it was beautiful.

He needed a vaccine, southern style – hair of the dog.

McCoy had to stop himself from giggling as an unfamiliar lightness enveloped him.

He scanned the room: Scotty to his left, Spock to his right, Uhura near Spock, and his friend, Jim, opposite, laughing hard at Scotty’s story. How beautiful he was, how alive and young and eager. Now the meeting was over, he’d pushed his chair away from the table.

McCoy placed his tricorder and PADD on the table and raised himself up, his heart pounding. “I’ve not been myself lately,” he said, looking directly at Kirk. “Lack of sleep, crazy shifts, dammed space food repeating on me…”

The rest of the senior staff exchanged looks, but Kirk widened his eyes, cocked his head very slightly, and waited.

McCoy clasped his hands behind him and reached his full height for the first time in what seemed like months. “I – “

The room had fallen silent, those present watching as he strode the short distance to Kirk’s side.

“I’ve been finding it hard to concentrate…” he said.

“Perhaps a rare form of space flu, Doctor?” Spock offered.

McCoy didn’t bother to answer. He took a deep breath, forced his jaw out, and looked down at his seated captain, who met his gaze fearlessly, his hands resting on his thighs, his lips slightly parted. This was the threshold he needed to cross.

And when Jim lowered his eyelids, McCoy’s heart fell towards him. This almost imperceptible sign of modesty, this signal, made McCoy smile, the proper kind of smile that reached his eyes.

“What is it, Bones?”

Those eyes, they wouldn’t torment him any more. He could swim in the blueness and not be scalded by it.

With infinite calm, he placed his hands on the captain’s shoulders and led him into a standing position.

Kirk stood eye to eye, toe to toe with him, the picture of certainty. And McCoy understood now that it had to be him who made the first move all along. It couldn’t have been the captain, he thought, His left hand slid to the back of Kirk’s neck where it cradled him while his right hand slid around Kirk’s waist and settled at the small of his back.

It had to be him so that this was clean and pure and out in the open. In one smooth, matinee idol move, McCoy pivoted Kirk into his arms, cradling him as he leaned forward and explored his lower lip with gentle, unhurried kisses that were promises and entreaties. He ventured into the corner of Kirk’s soft mouth, hovered over his nostrils, taking in his captain’s breath, and this time he dared to look. Kirk’s eyes were closed, his expression peaceful and accepting. His hands held onto McCoy’s arms.

McCoy ran his thumb over Kirk’s jaw and planted one last kiss for the time being. Then he took a long moment to drink in the sight of James T Kirk, his friend, his captain, his love, who was looking at _him_ , grinning like a kid. As McCoy pulled the captain back to the vertical and guided him gently into his seat, he noted with satisfaction that not only could he smile again but that he even had the odd smirk back in his repertoire.

“That was the antigen, Captain.” McCoy’s voice was low and strong, and his inner voice praised him for once for managing to saunter rather than run to the doors.

One last thing.

He turned and looked at Jim, who had yet to take his eyes off him. He saw Jim run his thumb along the corner of his mouth.

“Doctor, you appear to have kissed the Captain,” Spock said dryly. “Most illogical.”

McCoy wished he had a hat, but the drawl would have to do. He bit his lip and grinned at the open-mouthed senior staff, then raised his eyebrow at Spock.

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” And he made his exit, heart galloping and head swimming.

He heard Jim say, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…”

He was half-way down the corridor, heading for his quarters and his bourbon, almost at the lift before his legs could crumple and the enormity of what he’d done could sink in and maybe cause him to die, right there.

He felt a hand on his arm. “Take me with you, Bones.” Kirk smiled. “And that’s an order.”

“Dammit, Jim. Yes.“

McCoy had taken his vaccine. He ought to be safe now. So why did it still feel like he had a fever?

 **END**

Hope you enjoyed it - let me know with copious, loving feedback!

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first foray into writing for this fandom! Many thanks to the lovely, patient thalialunacy for sterling beta work, in the face of Britishisms aplenty and punctuation crimes, she ploughed through and made this baby fit for human consumption.  
> Thanks to blcwriter for her response to my movie review on my livejournal which gave birth to a bunny which resulted in the final scene!  
> Thanks to lindmere for general inspiration and encouragement to post.  
> Thanks to inell for introducing me to this pairing and changing my life because I got the writing bug again. Big time after a very long fallow period.  
> And I also want to thank awarrington for her soothing and encouraging words and for fixing all the messy formatting with such patience!


End file.
